


et commenceront les beaux jours (mais nous, nous serions morts, mon frère)

by theoreticlove



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M, Really It's Only Romantic If You Squint, The Ship Tag Can Be Interpreted As Platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26191762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticlove/pseuds/theoreticlove
Summary: in which namo and feanor get to know each other in the halls of mandos
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Námo | Mandos
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	et commenceront les beaux jours (mais nous, nous serions morts, mon frère)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalendeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/gifts).



> based on [this lovely piece](https://www.deviantart.com/feariel/art/Feanor-Namo3-853166363?ga_submit_new=10%3A1598397676) by Kalendeer

Námo hesitated as they approached the door to the solitary confinement chamber before materialising a hand to knock softly, three times. 

"What?" called Fëanáro, bitterly. He did not open the door. He could have, if he had chosen to do so, but even after three ages of the world had passed and all who had come to the Halls had left (save him, of course), he had still not warmed up to Námo. Why, Námo knew not. They had tried their best to be accommodating, aside the solitary confinement (it had been for the best, they were certain) but Fëanáro was firm in his resolution to never give Námo anything even remotely resembling kindness. 

Námo did not know how to have this conversation through the door, however, and so no matter how much they knew Fëanáro would not want them to, they opened the door to the chamber. It was spacious, though not decorated (the walls were not the sort one could hang things on) with anything other than tapestries previously woven in by Fëanáro's own mother (she had insisted- he was her son, and she had already missed out on decorating his nursery and childhood bedroom, so the least she could do was this). There was a bookshelf, as reading was perhaps the only thing that Fëanáro, a disembodied spirit, could actually do to pass the time without anyone to converse with, and as a gesture Námo made sure it always had the newest volumes on scientific advancements, because that was something they knew Fëanáro would be keen on knowing. 

"What do you want?" Fëanáro asked again. 

"To let you know you can leave." Námo said, but quickly amended themself at the brief hope that flashed through Fëanáro. "Solitary confinement. Not the Halls."

Fëanáro gave them an expression indicating that, if he had had eyebrows, he would have raised one at them. 

"I thought solitary confinement was permanent. That's what you said when I got here and you locked me in." 

"There is no one left for you to isolate yourself from." 

Realisation dawned on Fëanáro. 

"I am the last spirit in the Halls?" he asked, more to be sure than anything else. 

"Yes." They replied. "You have full reign of the Halls, within reason, as of now." 

Fëanáro seemed almost impressed. 

"Excellent," he said, and walked right past Námo into the vast expanse that was the Halls of Mandos. "I have many tapestries to see. Please do not disturb me." 

Námo sighed and let him be. He would be here for a long while, after all. 

You'll have to tell him eventually, a voice in their ear whispered. Tell him to take his time with the tapestries- he can't leave, anyway.

Námo knew this, of course. 

But the longer they waited to tell Fëanáro he would not go home until the Dagor Dagorath, the less time Fëanáro would have to bear the heartache of knowing that the tapestries were all the last glimpse of home he would be able to see again. 

***

"What is _that_?" Fëanáro shouted, suddenly, shock emanating through his voice. Námo took precious little time materialising before him, looking around to find the source of Fëanáro's shock. But all there was in front of him was a tapestry, depicting the celebrations that had ensued upon the arrival of Frodo and Bilbo Baggins in Valinor, with the sun at its highest peak in the sky.

"Is something wrong?" Námo asked, confused now. 

"Yes! What is that- that orb?" Fëanáro asked, gesturing to the bright circle that represented the sun. "Has something happened to the fabric of the tapestry? Was it intentionally woven in? What does it mean?" 

Ah, Námo realised. Fëanáro, for all his experience with the light of the Two Trees when they were still alive, had never seen the sun before, nor the moon. The tapestries that were in his chamber had represented the darkness his actions and the Oath had brought on the world, and very little of the joy- it was only natural that the sun and moon had also been exempt from representation. 

"The tapestry is fine. That orb is the sun, which was only created after you passed." 

"What is it? Some fiery ball come to crash down on my family and kill them all before they even realise it's hurtling towards them?"

Námo bit back a laugh at the image. 

"No, no. The sun is led by Arien-"

"The Maia?" Fëanáro interjected.

"Yes. She leads it around the world and it is a source of light. When the sun shines, it is day, and when the moon shines it is night."

"The moon?"

"A similar orb, though not as bright. Tilion leads that one." 

"Is it golden as well?" The topic seemed to interest Fëanáro greatly, and he seemed to hang on to every word that came out of Námo's mouth. 

"No, silver."

"Ah, like the Two Trees! Though, a different type of light, I suppose. What does the world look like, when the moon is out? The sun turns the sky blue and the world is bright. Is the moon the same, just a little less bright?" 

Námo shook their head.

"No. The moon does not light up the sky as the sun does. When the moon is out, the world is dark, and the only light is its own, faint one, save the light of the stars in the distance."

Fëanáro nodded appreciatively. 

"There is a tapestry of the night sky nearby," Námo continued. "Would you like to see it?"

Fëanáro seemed to ponder the implications of doing anything _with_ Námo, but it seemed that curiosity won out and Fëanáro agreed. Together, they walked the short distance to the tapestry. It covered an entire wall, pitch black save the stars and the moon. Each star was painstakingly placed, Námo knew, to reflect its actual position in the sky. 

It seemed that, the longer you looked at it, the less anything else seemed real. The dark consumed you, as if you were actually seeing it, and the stars and moon seemed to shine. Námo felt a bout of pride for their wife- only she could weave things so realistic, so beautiful. 

"It's magnificent," Fëanáro whispered. "I would… I would love to see that, someday. I cannot wait to go home." 

Guilt hit Námo with a pang. They opened their mouth to say something, but as soon as the words passed through Fëanáro's lips he seemed to remember himself. 

"Thank you for showing me this," he said, with perfectly practiced politeness. "Please send my compliments to Vaire."

"Of course," replied Námo, guilt still churning through them. "I will be certain to do so." 

Fëanáro shot one last glance at the tapestry and left. 

***

"Why do you loathe me?" Námo asked one day after Fëanáro gave him the cold shoulder yet again. It seemed to him strange- to his knowledge he had done his best to avoid offending Fëanáro while he was in the Halls. He had figured it was solitary confinement and the Doom and the lack of being able to see his sons whenever he pleased, but even now that Fëanáro was out of confinement he still seemed to dislike him immeasurably.

"Who says I loathe you?" Fëanáro snipped, voice icy. 

"It is inferrable by your actions," Námo explained. 

"What business to you have analysing the things I do?" 

"I simply wish to understand." 

Fëanáro snorted. 

"You let very few others understand the things you do, yet you think you deserve to understand the actions of everyone else?" 

Confusion rippled through Námo. 

"I confess I do not know what you are talking about." 

"Sure you don't." 

"Truly, Fëanáro, I have no recollection of any event that might have caused you to feel that way."

Fëanáro stared at him, disbelieving. His expression was bitter, tinged with disgust towards Námo. 

"That's impressive. That you have no memory of telling a young child he could never see his mother and bringing him to tears? Unyielding, uncomforting? Yet you know what happens in the world even across the sea." 

Námo started. When had he… oh. Oh, now he recalled. 

Fëanáro had been a very young boy- it surprised Námo that he even remembered the event. He couldn't have been older than six. A young child, come to ask Námo if he could see his mother, just the once. 

_"Please? Atto says that weaving was Amme's craft! So I started learning it! And I want to show her!" Little Fëanáro held up a bit of woven fabric, showing colourful, if not simple, work, beaming up at the Doomsman. "Maybe she can see it and she will give me a hug! My friends say their Ammes give the best hugs. If you bring her back just for a little bit maybe I can have one too!_

"Oh, now you remember," snapped Fëanáro. "Do you remember what you said, too? Because I do. _No_. With no hesitation, not an ounce of sympathy, you tore any hope I had of seeing my mother to shreds and didn't even bother to tell me why."

"I did not realise you would recall that event."

"How would I forget it?" It came out a bitter cry. "It haunted me! I dreamed of my mother and woke up with the sound of your voice echoing in my mind! I was six! I was six years old and everyone else had a mother and I had just wanted to see her! Just for a little bit!" 

"I had no choice in telling you no."

"You could have done it with less cruelty! You could have explained to me why!"

The image of young Fëanáro, crying before Námo, popped into the Doomsman's mind, and an overwhelming guilt flooded him. His intent had never been to traumatise a child. 

"Did you know I abandoned weaving, after you told me no?" Fëanáro continued, laughing almost. "I wept and tossed all the fabric I had worked on into the fire and never so much as looked at a loom again. The Noldor used to look at weaving as an art that was one of the most important to practice, something that was _ours_ because it had been the art of our first queen. But I did not take it up because of you, and few picked it up after my father remarried, and now it is an art we once practiced, but seldom do anymore. No, now the Teler weave, or the Avari, or the Vanyar, but Noldo weavers and few and far between."

"I am sorry, Fëanáro." Námo said at last. 

"For the loss of the art? So am I."

"No. Well, I am sorry for that. But I am deeply sorry for what I did to you. It was not my intent to hurt you, but I did. I see now how cruel my words were and how deeply I hurt you, a child. I am so sorry."

"For a long time the very sight of you, or even of a depiction of you, made me sick, or brought me to hysterics. I hate that now I have to spend the rest of all the ages of the world stuck with you. In solitary confinement, at least, I only had to deal with your Maiar."

"I will do what I can, Fëanáro, to make it right. The ages of the world are a long time to suffer. If I can make it up to you, I will."

"You'd better." 

***

"Tell me about my sons," Fëanáro asked some time after he had confronted Námo about his childhood. 

Fëanáro, Námo knew, thought of his sons often. He loved them endlessly and, though he missed them, was grateful they had another chance at living their lives in Valinor. He was convinced that deep down, they were good people, and as Námo watched their behaviour outside the Halls, they are for the most part convinced that Fëanáro is right. 

Today, it is clear that Fëanáro misses them particularly, as he often did when one of their begetting days was near. There was no way to keep track of days, in the Halls, but Fëanáro, by some sort of fatherly intuition, always seemed to know anyway. 

So it came as no surprise to Námo when they found Fëanáro in one of the tapestry rooms he had designed, gazing at pieces of his sons. Maitimo and Makalaurë with their adopted sons, Elrond and Elros. Carnistir talking with the late chieftain Haleth, a smile on his face. The twin Ambarussa joking with each other. Tyelkormo with Curufinwë and Huan, petting the Maia dog quite ferociously.

Fëanáro seemed happy at the sight of them, though both the elf and the Vala knew these were scenes from long ago, from the first Age of the world that had now entered its fourth. 

But Námo had been told that it was always pleasing for parents to see their children happy and to remember them in that way, joyous and full of life. 

"How are they doing?" asked Fëanáro, when Námo did not immediately reply. 

"Well," Námo told him honestly. "They have made good lives for themselves, each one of them." 

Fëanáro brightened even more at that. 

"Wonderful! And they are happy, with these new lives?" 

"Yes, yes," Námo reassured him. "The fourth one, Carnistir, he is even getting married soon." 

Fëanáro let out a delighted gasp. 

"That's magnificent news! Oh, I'm so happy for him! What's her name? What is she like, who are her parents? Do they suit each other well? Everyone must be so thrilled!"

Námo chuckled. 

"Her name is Ilvanë Liltarë, and from what I can tell she is very sweet. A gardener and a dancer. Her parents are Glorfindel and Ecthelion of Gondolin."

"Oh! Isn't Glorfindel my nephew Turgon's brother-in-law?"

"He is. Ilvanë and your son are indeed well suited for each other, and your family is indeed thrilled. The wedding is coming up very soon and everyone has thrown themselves into helping them plan."

"Magnificent! I'm so happy for Moryo. And Nerdanel must be thrilled to have another daughter! Especially since Curufinwë and his wife are still estranged." 

Námo nodded. 

"I am told that Ilvanë gets along exceptionally with your family, and that she is thrilled to have a mother for the first time. And are you also happy to have another daughter-in-law?"

"Of course! I hardly know her, but if she makes Carnistir happy and gets along with all my family I am sure that I love her already. You say she is a gardener- what does she plant?"

"Well, she is a dancer under Nessa's discipleship, and I am told she primarily does flowers, but since Nessa and Vana are so close, and Vana and Tyelkormo, and Tyelkormo and Carnistir who loves to cook, I am told that Vana has been guiding her in planting herbs for Carnistir to cook with."

Fëanáro sighed sweetly. 

"How romantic! That's very sweet, indeed- your description of her seems to be spot on. I am so happy that Carnistir has found a girl like that to love for the rest of his life. I long to meet her, now. I always wanted daughters."

Námo nodded and ignored the guilt, as they had been doing for some time now.

_Tell him,_ the voice said. _You're only delaying the inevitable._

"Now," continued Fëanáro, before they had the chance to say anything, "tell me about the rest of my sons! And my grandson!" 

"Well, Maitimo has begun some sort of group for people suffering from what Irmo calls post-traumatic stress disorder and he is now known for his research in that. Makalaurë is still a singer, of course, though his voice has a certain roughness to it since returning from Arda. Apparently the people of Tirion find it quite soothing. Tyelkormo lives with Oromë's hunt still, and I am told they are practically married. Curufinwë still spends much of his time in the forge- he and Tyelperinquar are busy trying to catch up on all the developments they have missed in the art, and neither have much of an inkling for romance. And Ambarussa still reside with Nerdanel, happy to cause mischief with the hobbits and young elves- particularly Legolas of the Mirkwood elves."

For each son, Fëanáro had nodded approvingly, though he had despite himself scoffed at the mention of Oromë. But overall, he seemed pleased. 

"As long as they are doing well," he said. "That is all I want. For them to be happy and content with their lives." 

Námo nodded. 

"Then rest easy," he told Fëanáro, "for they are well and lack nothing but the presence of their father."

"I suppose, if they are lacking something it may as well be me. They are better off having Nerdanel present- ever she is an excellent mother and a comforting presence. They need that, I think. Comfort. They always will."

Námo does not bother to tell him that his sons had always found comfort in their father, too. He thinks that telling him might only cause him pain. Especially when, inevitably, he found out.

***

Námo wandered around the Halls aimlessly, for no particular reason other than to admire the endless tones of grey that they so loved. All the rooms in the Halls were more or less grey, a spiritual colour, they thought, somewhere between life and death, black and white. Which is why they were very surprised to walk into one of the rooms and find one of the walls coloured a bright, blood red.

"What is this?" They demanded of Fëanáro, who wore a smug expression. 

"What, the wall?" Fëanáro replied nonchalantly. "I was bored, so I asked my mother to show me how to weave. I'm not very good yet so I stuck with one colour and decided to redo your wall. I hate all this grey. It's boring and uncreative."

Námo spluttered. 

"Oh, get off your high horse," Fëanáro continued. "Your Halls are boring and I am an artist. Let me amend your plain walls."

"What? The Halls are meant to represent timelessness and grey is the best colour to reflect that."

"I disagree. In my opinion, grey is a colour for boredom. But red symbolises power and blood and thus life, the memory of it always with us. Is that not the point of the Halls? To eventually return everyone to the life they had been ripped away from? Though I know I am doomed to remain in the Halls for a while longer, I still will stay true to the value of it."

For the first time in a long while, Námo was at a loss for words. Fëanáro, they supposed, did have a point. 

"Do you have any other plans, for the walls?"

"Oh, certainly!" Fëanáro said brightly. "Of course, some of them require more skill in weaving, so it may be quite some time. But as I figure I have a decent amount of time, because you've yet to tell me when I will leave the Halls, my plans shall realise themselves sooner than I think. I don't even need to sleep- I wonder how long it will take me to master my mother's craft! Not that I wish to become better than her, but I would like to have skill in it. My son Carnistir does and I am always in awe of him."

Námo nodded, uncertain as to how the conversation had become about Fëanáro's sons. As they were most of what Fëanáro talked about (not always to Námo, often to himself), however, they supposed they ought not to be surprised. 

"Will you tell me of your plans?" Námo asked in an attempt to veer the conversation back on track. 

"Yes! I'd love to. And, of course, if you have any ideas, please let me know and I will do my best to incorporate them! Maybe. Only if they're good ideas, and I don't know how capable you are of having those. Unfortunately, these are your Halls, which is why I offer. I was raised to be polite, after all. But, the Halls are so big, with so many rooms to occupy, I can't even imagine how much work I will be able to do, or how beautiful it will be when it's all completed, so I could- and this is unlikely- run out of ideas. Although in the end I think even Vaire will be impressed. Or, better yet, my mother! Oh, I would be so happy if she could be proud of my taking up her craft."

Námo had half a mind to tell him that Miriel had always been proud of him, but was rather miffed at Fëanáro placing the opinion of a mere elf (his mother, but nonetheless) above their excellent, extremely talented, Vala wife. And insulting their taste.

"I will be sure to let you know if anything comes to mind. However I must inquire as to your telling me your actual ideas, because I've yet to hear them and need to judge whether they are worthy of my Halls or not."

Fëanáro scoffed openly at this. 

"Worthy of your Halls! Ha! Surely they will not be the great tapestries of Miriel and Vaire that hang, but colour is definitely worthy of any establishment. And it doesn't have to be just red- there could be green, to symbolise the springtime, rebirth, blue to symbolise the constant waves, the tide, the reassurance of something as permanent as the sea. Yellow, for the bright golden light that I am told shines above Valinor. It would be interesting, of course, to try to depict the sun, as I never have and never will see it myself, but what an adventure in artist's depictions it would be! Oh, it would be like sculpting the most beautiful woman in the world without even ever having seen my wife! Ah, but I'm getting off topic again, aren't I? Yes, although you cannot blame me if all my ideas are not quite coherent, now that the thought of my wife has been put into my mind, oh, I long to see her, anyway-"

Fëanáro barely described any of his ideas, but if he thought of their designs and concepts half as much as he thought about his wife, or even an eighth as much, Námo was certain they would be very beautiful indeed. They remarked fondly, some time later, that the newest shade of red that Fëanáro had picked for several of the walls indeed, was the same shade as the red of Nerdanel's hair. 

***

"So. What's it like, outside in the real world?" Fëanáro asked Námo amidst the collection of tapestries devoted specifically to the sun (though the moon was Fëanáro's favourite, he was the Spirit of Fire still and loved the sun extensively). "Does the sun affect the weather patterns, or does Manwë still control all of that?" 

It was a good question, Námo realised. 

"The Sun and Moon do have the effects of heat and cold," Námo said, "as the Sun is very warm and the Moon is not. But Manwë controls the degree of heat, still, and the humidity, and all of the other weather factors like the rain."

"Ah, I see. So what is he doing with the weather right now?"

Námo zoned out, briefly, their own spirit leaving their body, prodding at Manwë's mind (a thing they did as rarely as possible, but had discovered they would do whenever necessary for Fëanáro) and looking to Valinor to assess the weather.

"It's hot out," said Námo when they returned to Fëanáro. "Humid." 

"Oh, it's summer! Nerdanel must be annoyed, especially if it's very humid like you say."

"Why?" Námo said. It seemed to him that elves generally preferred the heat to the cold, though he didn't have much to base that on. 

"The humidity makes her hair poof. It's so thick, and she has so much of it, too, it's a nightmare to keep done up. So she's never cared for the heat."

"She doesn't care for the heat," Námo said, "and yet she married you, the Spirit of Fire, who is notorious for having an extremely elevated body temperature." 

"Well," Fëanáro said suggestively, "that's not the only kind of hot I am."

Námo was not quite sure what he meant. 

"I did watch you spontaneously combust," they replied. "You were, indeed, burning up."

Fëanáro spluttered.

"Was that a death joke?"

"I suppose it was," Námo realised. 

"I didn't know you knew what a joke was." 

"I learned from you."

"I don't often joke about my death."

"Well, as keeper of the Halls and shepherd of spirits, it is well within my rights to be making them." 

Fëanáro looked up at them and began to laugh. It was a bright, booming sound, perfectly suited to the depth of his voice and the energy he carried. 

"Touche!" he cried. 

Námo was not quite sure what he found funny, but smiled all the same. 

***

The Halls, Fëanáro thinks, are an exceptionally boring place to be. Particularly without anyone left to visit him. Not that he had visits often, while he was in solitary confinement, but the occasional visit at least left him with something to think about, a voice that was not his own ringing in his ears. But now, the Halls were empty save for himself, the maiar and Námo himself. 

Fëanáro did not particularly care for any of them. The maiar were boring, having never known the world outside the Halls, and Námo was rather dull, in his own opinion, and ridiculously strict. The Vala spoke in two word sentences, which was unbearable as Fëanáro, personally, enjoyed conversations being a two way street. 

So Fëanáro, understandably, wanted to go home. His wife always had long, interesting discussions with him, and he missed her quite terribly. He had missed her quite terribly for a very long time, and now that everyone else was gone, he thought reasonably that it might be his turn. He knew he had to go last and this seemed to be the end of it. He was told that the majority of the elves had sailed, that the age of Men had begun in the East, and surely Valinor was as strifeless as it always had been when he was alive. Perhaps even more strifeless, now that they had seen and lived the horrors of war. 

He wondered if Formenos, his stronghold of old, still stood. He wondered if his house on the outskirts of Tirion, the house he had built by hand to prove the fortitude of his love for Nerdanel and the house where they had raised their children, still stood. If she still lived there. If any of his sons had moved back home. 

What he would not give to walk through that threshold again, to once again see the warm coloured wood illuminated by sunlight, to see the flowers Nerdanel always kept on the dinner table, to see the light of a candle make her hair seem to burn like a flame. What he would not give to hear the boys running throughout the house antagonizing each other, to hear birdsong from outside the window when he woke in the morning, to hear her laugh, that beautiful sound he had long treasured above anything else and regretted ever giving up.

When he left the Halls, when he was finally permitted to return, the first thing he would do would be to apologise, and do his best to hear that sound again and know he had been the reason for it. 

And he could make amends with the Teleri, as best as he could, and renounce his claim on the Silmarils officially, as he had felt his Oath snap when the jewel had burned with Maedhros, and apologise to Fingolfin publicly, in front of Tirion's entire court, bury the hatchet as his younger brother had tried to do all those years ago. 

Half brother in blood, full brother in heart, Fëanáro would tell him, an echo of Fingolfin's words, and he would mean each one.

The thought of all this made Fëanáro exceptionally happy. All he had worried about in his first life- the crown, his legacy, his power- no longer seemed to matter. If he made amends, if he lived the honest life of a good man, and most importantly if he had his family, all would be well for him. 

It was time for him to return to Tirion. 

So he presented himself before Námo, and said: "I think I should be allowed to leave the Halls and return to life."

What he was not expecting, of course, was for Námo to say: "No." 

"What do you mean, no?" Fëanáro said, and felt his temper begin to rise. Why should he remain here? What purpose did it serve? He had been here since before the first age of the world had started, before the rising of the sun and moon, and the fourth age had just begun! Surely he could be permitted to leave at long last, after thousands of years!

"I mean no," said Námo. "You shall not leave the Halls of Mandos until the end of days." 

"The… the end of days? You can't be serious!"

"I am very serious, Curufinwë Fëanáro. Your rebirth will announce to all the escape of Morgoth from the Great Void and will call the armies of the Children of Iluvatar to battle. To release you earlier than your due would be to doom all who live to short lives and to accelerate the Dagorath and Eru's remaking of the world." 

If Fëanáro had a body, he would have needed to sit down. 

He was never going to leave this place. 

He would never again taste a home cooked meal, nor would he gaze at the stars on the roof, curled under a blanket with Nerdanel. He would never get to see the sun, not to see it rise or set, nor would he see the moon. 

There was a terrible feeling in his soul as all the hopes he had built up for a new life came crumbling down, as all thoughts of reconciling, of amending wrongs disappeared. He would never see his wife again, never feel her lips against his or hear that laugh he longed for. He would never see his boys again, never get to tell them how much he loved them or how proud he was of them. He would never meet their spouses, nor the grandchildren he had always wanted, the ones he had dreamed of doting on, spoiling beyond measure. 

The world would keep on going, their lives would start and continue and he would be trapped here in the Halls, stifled, lifeless, forevermore. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, aching. For thousands of years he had been here, expecting that one day he would be allowed to leave.

"I'm so sorry," Námo said. It seemed like he meant it, but Fëanáro did not care. The anger he had felt had quickly been replaced with pain. 

"I want my family," he begged, and Námo turned away with a sorrowful look that nearly rivaled Nienna's constant tears.

Fëanáro did not even have eyes with which he could weep. 

***

Námo found Fëanáro on his knees, what they judged to be about two weeks after they had broken the news. It was not the first time they had seen the greatest of the Noldor weep, and they did not believe it would be the last. But Fëanáro had only ever cried for his family, and that was why the tapestry in front of Fëanáro felt so out of place. It was not a work of his family; of his wife when she realised he had died; of his sons committing atrocities in his name; of his grandson meeting his doom and staying strong, so strong in the face of unspeakable evil.

No, this time the tapestry was of an event long passed- the kinslaying at Alqualonde. It was an old tapestry, as well- one of the first that Fëanáro saw when he arrived in the Halls. It had hung in his chamber for a very long time. 

Fëanáro sniffled, and Námo had no doubt he would have tears running down his face if he had a body. He sighed, almost as if sensing Námo's presence among him. Likely, he had. 

"I missed that detail, before," he said, his voice hoarse. "The child." 

His voice cracked on the word and he broke again, a sob forcing its way out of him. 

Námo's brow furrowed and he analysed the tapestry carefully. He had not seen a child in the tapestry, either. But now that he knew what he was looking for, he found it relatively easily. 

In the background of the tapestry sat a young child on the pristine, blood-stained beach of Alqualonde, next to the body of one of the slain Teleri. The child was red-faced, weeping, his hands on the elf's body, as if begging their parent to wake up. 

Ah, thought Námo. 

So much of Fëanáro's life had revolved around the loss of his mother, when he was a small child. And now, he found himself responsible for giving that pain to another, innocent child. 

"I killed her," Fëanáro sobbed. "I remember doing it, I remember the life leaving her eyes and her blood staining the sand. I didn't know she had a child, I didn't- it was unforgivable! Everything I have done, everything I did from the moment the Teleri told me no was unforgivable, a crime not even Melkor has committed, for has he slain his own kin? No! I was the first, and I took a child's mother away in my anger."

Námo searched their own mind, briefly, looked through their memories of deaths and reembodiments, looked for the woman Fëanáro spoke of until he found her. He remembered her spirit, as he remembered them all- afraid, confused, in pain. He remembered her joy to be reembodied. She remained in the Halls eight hundred years.

"Would it help you to know that she is alive?"

"No. No, I am glad to know she is, truly! She deserves life. But I will never forgive myself for the years that child was separated from their mother. For the years they were alone, and grieving, for all the times they needed a mother's love, a mother's touch, a mother's advice, and could not have it because I took her away." 

Námo nodded. 

They were both silent, for a time, Fëanáro grieving for a child reunited with their mother and Námo watching, pensively, contemplating his guilt. 

"Please leave me be," said Fëanáro, later. 

Námo did not know the way the elven mind works particularly well. But, if they were Fëanáro, the last thing they would want is to be left alone. So Námo ignored Fëanáro's wish and knelt beside him, pulling the shaking fea into their arms and holding them until their sobs ceased. 

"You were right," Fëanáro said after some time, voice not muffled at all though Námo had nearly expected it to be. "Even if I wanted to be reembodied, I do not deserve it- nothing I could do would make me worthy of happiness like I had known in Valinor again."

"That's not true," Námo replied, adamant. "Fëanáro, if I could reembody you now, trust I would do so. All deserve second chances."

"Not murderers. Not like me."

"Your sons-"

"I led them to that!" Fëanáro cried. "I led them to death and destruction and chaos! No, the life I once had is undeserved. I will leave the Halls only when Morgoth does- he and I are one and the same." 

"No. No, that's not true. Morgoth is… Morgoth is irredeemable. He has had many chances and taken none. You are worthy of a second chance, Fëanáro, though you will not receive it. Worthy of love. I know you would make things right." 

Fëanáro did not reply, but began to weep again. So Námo continued to hold him. 

***

Fëanáro seemed upset. He kept looking at the gray, disembodied spirit that he was and sighing, unable to form details of what would have resembled an elven body. The more time he spent in the Halls, the more appeared less elven, more spirit. 

Námo knew it was not something he particularly liked. And yet, Fëanáro could shape his fea into any form he willed if he wanted to- why not shape it in a form that made him comfortable?

"You have free reign over the shape of your fea," they told Fëanáro, "and yet you take a form you are clearly uncomfortable in. Why?"

Fëanáro seemed to get even more uncomfortable. 

"I... " he began, but hesitated, as though he were about to reveal some great secret. 

"You can tell me. I will offer no judgement." 

Fëanáro's anxiety seemed to settle, yet still he looked nervous. 

"I don't remember what an elven form looks like. It's been so long since I've seen one, since I've felt the constraints of my own body. I… I don't even recall what my body looked like, only that it sped away to ash."

_Oh._

Yes. Námo could see how it would be difficult to assume a form one did not remember.

"I will describe you, if you would like." Námo did not have an easy time forgetting- each elf they knew was firmly embedded in their mind, Fëanáro most of all. He was, after all, the elf they had known the longest.

"You would do that for me?" Perhaps Fëanáro was not as surprised as he once would have been, but he was nonetheless. 

"I would."

"Then, I… please." 

Námo nodded. 

"You were handsome," they began, and Fëanáro inhaled sharply. "Dark hair, down to your waist, almost jet black, dark enough to be blue. Pale skin, grey eyes- a more beautiful silver than even the moon. Your brows were thick, jaw sharp and always tense. There was something surreal about your body, as though there were really a living flame just underneath your skin, burning a fierce light behind your eyes." 

"You paint a pretty picture," said Fëanáro.

"You were a pretty picture to behold," Námo replied. And then a thought popped into their mind. 

This was not something they should have been considering. Manwë, certainly, would disapprove. But elven fëar were not meant to be without a hroa forever, and clearly the lack of one was taking its toll on Fëanáro. 

"I could make you a Maiar," they said, before they could change their mind. "You could have a body again, even if you still would not be free to leave."

" _What?_ " said Fëanáro, shock radiating throughout his fea. "You can do that? Why didn't you offer me this service before?"

"I am required to request permission from Manwë before I do, usually. But… I am the Judge of the dead. And if I judge you worthy of a Maiarin form, who is going to stop me?" 

Fëanáro stared at him for a second, shocked. Then, he laughed. And laughed. And laughed. 

"Námo, Námo, Námo! First all these compliments, now a new body! Truly, you never cease to surprise me!" 

"Do you want the body?" Námo asked drily. Fëanáro's spirit seemed to shine. 

"Of course! Let's get to it!"

***

Fëanáro's maia form closely resembled his first body. His hair was dark as night, as it always had been, and Námo was convinced that if he added pearls to it, the shining, white kind, it would resemble the night sky of which Fëanáro was so fond. 

His eyes mismatched, one the same silvery gray as his elven form had been, the other molten gold- his eyes a stark contrast to Námo's covered and yet still allseeing ones. His skin was covered in fabric, of the same colour that covered the eyes of the Lord of the Dead, and the colours of it seemed to shift as he walked. 

Manwë had thrown a fit, of course, but Námo, who had always been a great appreciator of beauty and now beheld the most beautiful form they had ever seen, bore absolutely no regrets. 

"You are astonishing," they told Fëanáro as silver glinted in the light of the Halls. 

He smiled, and his teeth were sharp. 

"You're not so bad yourself." 

Námo smiled back. 

"It has been… a blessing, to have you in my Halls. I do not delight in your death, nor the separation from your family. But every day I am content to know you are here with me, until the end of all days." 

Something in Fëanáro softened. 

"You're not so bad, yourself." 

***

There was no beginning to the end. It was simply, suddenly, happening, and none could do anything to stop it.

"It is time for you to go, Curufinwë Fëanáro," Námo said suddenly, stiffening.

"What do you mean, time for me to go?"

"Morgoth is near breaking down the doors of Night. In hours he will escape. It is time for you to go."

Feanor froze. 

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, you said as long as I was here, the Dagorath wouldn't happen."

"Yes. But now the time is upon us. I have had word from Eru Allfather that is it soon time to remake the world, and the Dagorath is the last missing piece."

"I said no," Feanor told them, vehemently this time. "No. I will not leave and doom my family. You cannot force me and you will not convince me. I will not leave the Halls."

"Fëanáro, you knew this day would come."

"Not yet."

"Fëanáro." 

"No. No. They deserve more time- my family, my sons, my grandchildren. They deserve to have a lasting peace."

"Fëanáro, they have had peace for thousands of years. And the Great End is its own type of peace- a rebirth, Ea remade, Ea unmarred." 

"No. I refuse to let you take away my sisters. My brothers, my nieces, my nephews. Ea unmarred will either take them away or take me away. (reword). I cannot abide by either."

"Would you prefer the world be marred forever? Always tainted by the shadow of the Enemy?"

"Is Valinor not perfect?" Feanor's temper grew. "Is Valinor not a land where my family has found peace? Why can I and it not stay where we are, in the great plan of Iluvatar?" 

"Fëanáro, the end has come! It will come whether you want it to or not!"

"But my staying here prevents it!"

"No! Your return forewarns it! With Morgoth so near escape, you must go! Warn your people, call them to arms!"

"My sons should not be forced to fight again!"

"Even in the beginning of the world, before the Doom was issued, we all knew that one day the world would end! Is that not what is described as your nature, the doom of the elves, to see the ages of the world rise and fall until the last age falls and nothing rises again?"

"The doom of the elves is to be immortal!"

"The elves are the firstborn children of Eru Allfather! They sang them into being and by Their grace They will remake the world in bliss for them!"

"My people do not want an unknown bliss! My people want their lives!"

"It is time for you to _go_ , Fëanáro. Leave. Give them a fighting chance."

"Why do they need a fighting chance when we will all die anyway?"

"Fëanáro. I know you wanted more time. Not just for your family, but for your people also. But that time has run out. If you leave now, you can warn them. Give them a chance to say their goodbyes to each other before it all ends." 

Fëanáro blinked back tears. 

"I don't want to," he said. "There is no way to delay this?"

Námo, sorrowful, shook their head. Fëanáro inhaled, forcing the tears back. 

"I will see you when we are remade," Námo said finally. 

The elf nodded. 

"Thank you. For everything." 

Námo realised belatedly that they were blinking back tears also. Then, they snapped their fingers. 

Fëanáro was gone. 

Námo waited, and watched, and in what seemed to be precious, precious little time, the gates of the Void burst open and sent the Halls of Mandos into a deep, pitch black, with no stars to light it.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed!!


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